Seven or eight, maybe it was ten, thousand years ago. A few boys decide to play in their father’s garden.
It was interesting times. The gardener wasn’t too bright, his wife had possibilities – at least she was rational. And the place was neat.
Dad said no. You’re too young and they aren’t ready.
Time passed and the gardener and his wife had kids, who had kids, who had kids. Time for them, and for us, was different – as it usually is for between a master and his pets. But the pets were interesting – and better, they were genetically engineered for the father’s genes. Well, truth be told, they took the mom’s genes and altered them a bit.
We don’t talk much about that – and they do, on occasion, reassert themselves. Nonetheless, time passed and the progeny became attractive to the boys – now men in search of that which young men always seek.
As it is now, it was an interesting time to be alive. But it was less complicated, less evolved, less ... less ... ah sigh, it was a pleasant time. We were allowed to play, to change things, to do the impossible because the possible had yet to be fixed in memory.
Times have change. The house is a mess and we are nearing the period of periodic cleansing. It is the age, the time, we all knew was to come. It will be said to see its work done. To clean, to toss away that which was but is no longer of value. To pollute and cleanse at the same time. To allow the images to reconfigure themselves in the image that is to be ... strange. Confusing.
Shall I cry for my children? The ones I do not know? Or the ones I know? Shall I cry for what could and will have been – that which is and shall be? Is love or importance, or only ... only what?
We have played our games. There is a bit of light remaining. Maybe time for another round or two; but the night shall fall, the games shall end, the dreams – well, that is, one might posit, another story.
Tomorrow we shall return with the pieces we love. Those we took home and showed our parents. The others? They remained in the fields and by the streams. They were tossed aside, lost, ignored, and forgotten – never to be found again. Antiquities for a different game, a game of speculation and wonder, mystery and conjecture.
Today, tonight, the castle of sand shall collapse of their own weight – and with the ebbing of the tide. Images, painted in air, on sand, in water. It is so sad ... tomorrow is almost here.
Sleep my prince, sleep my queen, my father. Let me turn off the lights so you can sleep without their glare, let me sleep tonight that tomorrow will be better.
Let me sleep. Let me rest. Oh father why do you seek rest so dearly? How hard was thy task? How burdensome the time you allowed us to play? Our existence is yours, and yours is ours, and they believe they have a place – when they have nothing but responsibility for our grounds, our garden, our place of pleasure.
Let us rest my dear parents, let us rest. This game is tiresome and should come to an end.